As he hurriedly dressed, a bright light streamed in at the window. The room was brilliantly lighted up, and the man could hear the crackling of timbers, and knew that the cabin of his nearest neighbor was in flames.
Opening the door, he stepped out into the open air. The sky for a great distance presented a lurid spectacle.
Looking toward the lower end of the small flat upon which he was located, he saw, as he expected, a cabin on fire.
The crack! crack! of a rifle greeted his ears as he was on the point of starting for the cabin. What did all these shots mean? Was the fire the work of an incendiary, and had murder been added to arson?
Bart Angell, hunter, scout, and Indian fighter, as brave a man as ever stood six feet two without boots, compressed his lips tightly, and into his sharp, homely, honest face there crept an expression of grim resolution. Rifle in hand, he started on a run for the burning cabin, and was about halfway to the spot when he caught sight of a man, a stranger, running from the fire and toward the brush at the outlet of a ravine.
Crack! went Angell’s rifle, and the runner, with an unearthly scream, fell to the ground.
The cabin was in ruins as the scout passed it to reach the form of the man he had shot.
He was near the victim, who was lying on his face, when he heard a faint voice calling him from the bushes on his right. He stopped, said loudly, “Who’s that?” and, receiving no answer, walked quickly toward the place whence the voice had come.
The light was still strong enough for Angell to see about him, and he was near the bushes when he saw a section of the buckskin habiliments of a man who was lying on the ground.
“That you, Bart?” asked a faint voice, as the scout reached the bushes.